Tatarabuela de mi Tatarabuela de mi Tatarabuela de mi Tatarabuela
I remember you in the boiling
of mi madre’s watery mi hijas.
For too long I have been cast
iron longing for your ghost.
Not knowing I belong
in your lap of flames.
One day, I will pass through you
as if I were milk passing through
the mouths of mix-breeds
yet to come.
I remember when you
smelled like the rinds
of a hundred thousand ears cupped
to shells. Listening for lanes
on ocean being carved by ships
heading west.
I remember when you tasted like salt
of the moon, when it bleached
the backs of spiders as they
clawed the ground.
I remember your breasts—
unbroken white ripples of stretch
marks—interrupting the mud
of your flesh.
You were counted by the coqui
nails of song ripping at the darkness,
swelling with green fish leaves,
a flood of eyes, hidden
in the hills, forming a bowl
to keep the ocean
in its place.
I remember you singing
the mortar and pestle, epiling—
epilong—epiling—epilong crushing
the hunger of wild four legged
caciques, that howl at night.
You are the shadow of their breath
in the slow sap, discovering itself
in the repetition of light at dawn.
I remember the pulp of your voice,
crawling into the medicine
of hammocks. You held the chant
and all the skins of mi madre y
mis abuelas, y mis bisabuelas
that would, in one life, digest me
under blankets of sofrito.
I considered the possibility
of you while chewing firefly
wrappers in a country
that you never could have
imagined, in the farmlands of Ohio
thousands of generational
miles between us.
You would never know
Spanish, foaming wet against
the insides of your cheeks—
preciosa, lamer, confesion, volver.
While English never raked
against your gums—
catch, quit, call, test, take.
From your mouth bloomed
the untainted language, Taino
that said we are noble,
we are good.
You are green plantains in the morning
of weeping orphans, with thumbs
for tongues on the skirts of Boriquen.
You are the curl of besos
when I think there is no one
to call me by the name
I have yet to learn.
You are the tumbling
of mango fists against
the heat of sangre.
Emerging Native American Voices
January, 2010
Jamie Figueroa
More work by Jamie Figueroa
Tatarabuela de mi Tatarabuela de
mi Tatarabuela de mi Tatarabuela
West of El Santuario de
Guadalupe
Biography
Jamie Figueroa (Taino/Boricua) is a creative writing major at The Institute of American Indian Arts. She identifes with the tri-ethnicity of Puerto Rico/Boriquen and of her
family: Taino, Afro-Caribbean, and Spanish. She has performed her poetry in collaboration with local artists at events including: SALVE: Women in War, Women
Warriors at the National Hispanic Cultural Center in Albuquerque. She was the second place winner of the Tribal College Journal’s annual fiction contest, and was published in the Fall 2010 issue. Her essay, ‘You Can Keep Your God,’ was a finalist for Freedom
From Religion’s annual contest and was published in their Fall 2009 issue. She has presented at the Native American Literary Symposium, the Indigenous Book Festival, and in the Southwest American Indian Arts Organization 2010 literary series. She is a
literacy tutor for adults volunteering weekly in Santa Fe.